


Lord, if I Stumble

by guardiandevil



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Deaf Clint Barton, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Impossibly slow burn actually, Love Triangles, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardiandevil/pseuds/guardiandevil
Summary: An exploration of Matt's relationship with his identity, romance, and God.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Matt Murdock, James "Bucky" Barnes & Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock & Natasha Romanov, Matt Murdock & Peter Parker, Matt Murdock/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hipbonesofChrist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipbonesofChrist/gifts).



> This is my first time posting on ao3 and I'm hoping this will go down well :) any feedback would be appreciated!

“Clint.”

Matt didn’t need to question who was clambering in through his window at 3am, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat giving the archer away. It had become a usual occurrence, though Matt couldn’t say when, and he hadn’t even bothered to move from where he was sat when the window was forced open, instead continuing to nurse a half-finished glass of whiskey in the kitchen. When his greeting was met with silence, however, Matt finally placed his drink down and raised his head in Clint’s direction.

“I have a door for a reason,” he continued with an unamused laugh that sounded more akin to a huff.

Clint ignored him once again as he dropped his bow down carelessly onto Matt’s couch, promptly throwing himself down beside it. He kicked his boots up onto the table with a tired sigh.

“Y’also have a perfectly good window,” he retorted eventually, voice hoarse.

The lawyer’s head tipped subtly to the side as he focused on Clint; his heartbeat was steady, if only a little fast, though Matt put that down to climbing the fire escape, and though he was slumped on the couch, his muscles remained tensed. The stench of coffee on Clint’s breath was enough to have Matt’s nose twitching, the scent as strong as that of the alcohol on his own lips.

“Long night?” he supposed after a moment of pause, downing what was left of his whiskey only to pour himself another.

It was Clint’s turn to laugh then, breathless and short before he shrugged in response.

“Hydra do me in, man,” he grumbled in response, carefully eyeing the glass in Matt’s hands before continuing, “Bad day?”

It wasn’t surprising to see Matt with a drink – in fact, Clint saw it more often than he would like, but the bottle on the counter was near empty and the archer didn’t need enhanced senses to smell the liquor that stained Matt’s breath, even with the distance between them.

“Not nearly as bad as it could have been.” Matt’s voice came rough and low, words thick with the alcohol he continued to drink. He finished off his fifth – sixth? Seventh? – drink before finally pushing the glass aside. His fingers brushed through his hair, messy and unruly from a long day at work, and Clint caught sight of Matt’s knuckles, red and freshly bloody. The sight caused Clint to quirk an eyebrow, though he didn’t ask, gaze flickering over him for a few lingering moments instead; the lawyer still clad in a rumpled suit with his shirt buttons half undone and tie hanging loosely around his neck. Whatever Clint might have thought to say, he kept it to himself.

Their friendship had always had that nature – _don’t ask, don’t tell. _Clint didn’t push or offer overbearing help when Matt was limping from tripping on the stairs or bruised from walking into a door that someone had left open, and Matt didn’t pester him when Clint collapsed promptly after climbing through his window due to Avengers-related injuries or even ask why he was climbing through his window in the first place, rather than heading back with the other Avengers. Neither asked and they both preferred it that way.__

Matt and Clint’s meeting had been entirely accidental, on both of their behalf. It wasn’t exactly on the top of Matt’s to-do list to meet an Avenger and Clint certainly hadn’t wanted to accidentally run into (and consequently push over) a blind man, but things never did happen the way they were supposed to. Things hadn’t been all bad though, as Matt had somehow managed to keep his identity a secret and Clint had made a super cool friend who totally didn’t have to continuously act as his lawyer and not just his friend who also just so happened to be a lawyer.

Somewhere amidst the chaos of their lives, they had found a way to make the friendship work.

Drawn out of his thoughts by Matt settling down beside him, Clint huffed, shifting aside slightly. He was certain that the lawyer wouldn’t want to be too close before he had had the chance to shower and, though he wouldn’t mention it, Clint wasn’t too fond of the strong alcoholic scent – he’d spent enough time around Stark to grow sick of it.

“Are you… Injured?” Matt asked with a certain degree of hesitancy, afraid he would be overstepping in doing so. Most of the time, when Clint came to Matt’s apartment rather than going to his own, it was due to an injury and Matt had drank enough alcohol to be unable to tell if the blood he smelt was Clint’s or his own.

“Nothing I can’t fix.” Clint’s, then.

“Kit’s in the bathroom if you need it. Usual spot.”

“I know, thanks, man.”

Matt nodded wordlessly, offering a small hum in response. His hand reached to his face to slip his glasses off and pinch at the bridge of his nose as he became aware of a growing headache. Perhaps he’d had one drink too many. Or two or three too many. With an exhausted sigh, Matt sunk back into the couch again, leaning tiredly into Clint’s arm.

“Y’got work in the mornin’?”

Another silent nod from Matt had Clint winding his arm around the lawyer, who allowed himself to be pulled closer. From where he was laid against Clint’s chest, he could hear only the familiar heartbeat and the cacophony of Hell’s Kitchen melted to nothingness. And at the end of a long night, if they both fell asleep like that, neither of them mentioned it.

Clint would be gone by the time that Matt woke for work, anyway.

* * *

“Good morning to you too, Barton,” Tony drawled blandly when Clint finally managed to drag himself into the meeting room. He had left Matt’s apartment hours prior but had (somehow) managed to crash when he’d arrived back at the tower too, meaning that he was late for the team meeting he _totally, definitely _hadn’t forgotten about until Friday alerted him.__

He offered a grunt in response, barely acknowledging anyone as he settled into the nearest seat, thankful for the sunglasses that hid his tired eyes that almost instinctively slipped shut when they had the chance.

“Where’d you get to last night?” Natasha asked, eyeing him curiously as she set a mug down in front of Clint.

“Stayed with a friend,” he replied before taking a few eager sips of his coffee, desperate for something to wake him up, before adding a quiet, “Thanks.”

“A friend? You mean Matthew?”

Clint glanced up in time to see Natasha quirking an eyebrow, now sat across the table from him. A barely-there smirk rested upon her lips, knowing and all the more frustrating because of it. He had blurted the rather embarrassing story of his and Matt’s first meeting one time whilst drunk and she hadn’t let him forget it since.

“Friend?” Sam piped up, a snort following the question, “Since when did you start having friends?”

Clint had barely started rolling his eyes when Natasha hurried to answer.

“He knocked a blind man into the road,” she explained smugly before Clint had had the chance to.

_Well, when you put it like that…_

“No, he’s not- I mean, he is- it’s not like that.” Clint didn’t need to look at him to know that Steve was giving him a disappointed look from across the room, though he did appreciate Sam’s warm laugh and Bucky’s amused smile that earnt him an elbow to the ribs from good ol’ Cap.

“A blind man? Do I need to ask Fri to contact the legal team, bird brain?”

“No,“ Clint groaned with an exasperated groan, slipping his glasses off to settle Tony with an equally unimpressed glare. “He’s my friend. Plus, he’s a _lawyer, _if he was planning on suing me, I’m pretty sure he would have by now.”__

Tony seemed to perk up at the new information, curiosity overtaking the previous boredom of another routine meeting.

“A lawyer? Who does he work for? Goodman, Lieber, Kurtzberg and Holliway? Sullivan and Cromwell? Kirkland and Ellis?”

“Nelson and Murdock, Tony. They’re a _small _firm,” Natasha answered pointedly. If Clint hadn’t known her for as long as he had, he would have asked how she’d figured it out, certain that he hadn’t been the one to tell her, but, well, he had, so he didn’t.__

There was a moment of silence from Tony, who looked to be in deep thought for a few seconds, before something appeared to dawn on him. He clicked his fingers, pointing in Clint’s direction with a self-satisfied hum.

“The guys who represented Castle!” he announced happily, continuing on easily, “And helped to take down Fisk which, might I say, is quite impressive.”

Clint’s patience was beginning to wear thin as he buried his face into his hands with an annoyed groan. He pushed his fingers back through his hair and shook his head, visibly relaxing when Steve finally spoke up.

“Maybe we should get back to the reason why we’re here.”

Clint had never been more grateful for the man in his life.

* * *

It was almost ironic that, considering he’d been the one happiest to drop the subject, Steve had been the first to meet Matt.

In his defence, it had been entirely accidental – after all, how was he supposed to know that a certain blind lawyer would be stood in Fogwell’s gym at gone midnight?

“Hello? Is someone there?” a voice had called when Steve entered, causing the supersoldier to curse quietly under his breath. He was hoping to have the gym to himself and wasn’t too keen on being pestered by fans when he tried to work out, but it was too late to go back, so he sucked in a sharp breath and continued to wander further into the gym.

“Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be here…” he murmured, trailing off slightly as he came across Matt, stood beside a punching bag with wrapped knuckles; it relieved Steve to see that there was only one other person.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting anyone either,” Matt retorted with a charming smile and – _cute,_ Steve thought, watching the way it seemed to light up his face. He couldn’t help but smile equally as wide.

“Nice to meet you…” Steve prompted, holding his hand out when he was close.

“Matt Murdock.” Ignoring Steve’s outheld hand, Matt turned his head towards somewhere just above Steve’s left shoulder. His eyes were free of their usual red shades, exposing the scarred skin around them. “And you are?”

Steve faltered for a moment, unused to people not recognising him. It seemed to take him a few seconds longer to realise, because Matt suddenly heard the soldier’s heart race before he cleared his throat and promptly withdrew his hand. He withheld a smile.

“Steve Rogers,” he finally replied, before pausing again.

_Matt Murdock – where did he know that name?_

Stepping away from Steve, Matt moved over to the bench at the side of the gym, holding his hand out in front of him and stumbling ever so slightly when his knee eventually hit the bench. He steadied himself, letting out a shaky sigh. _Get yourself together, Murdock,_ he thought; if he could handle one avenger, he could handle two, right? Taking a deep breath, Matt picked up his wrapping tape and turned back towards Steve.

“So, Steve Rogers, wanna show me what you’ve got?”

A stuttering heartbeat gave Steve away and Matt couldn’t help but smile to himself, dipping his chin down towards his chest in an attempt to conceal it. He could already sense Steve’s tension from the idea.

“Afraid to hurt the blind guy?” he figured, his expression soft as he hummed, nodding to himself. It wasn’t an entirely unexpected response considering. Most people struggled with the fact that they would be fighting a blind man, adding enhanced strength to the mix and, well… It just seemed dangerous to Steve. Fighting anyone un-enhanced (blind or not) didn’t seem like a particularly good idea. Matt’s resigned expression irked something deep within his chest, though; he knew what it was like to be underestimated – hell, he’d spent most of his life chasing a fight that no one thought he was capable of, and so he shook his head and made up his mind.

“Afraid he might hurt me,” Steve eventually offered with a short chuckle, waving his hand in a half-hearted gesture to Matt and the exposed muscle of his biceps. He had no doubt that the lawyer’s chest was equally toned.

“You’re in pretty good shape,” he added, taking the tape from Matt’s outstretched hand and beginning to wind it around his own before continuing. “You do this professionally?”

Matt smiled again at that, cocking his head to the side just so. He’d be certain to inform Clint that his friend was perhaps the _least_ ableist person he’d met at the gym to date. He was sure the archer would be proud.

“Professionally?” he couldn’t quite help the laugh that accompanied the response, “No, I- I’m a lawyer. Dad was a boxer, though. Long time ago now.”

As Matt gestured over to the far wall, Steve’s gaze followed, landing upon a torn poster on the wall, peeling away from the brick at the corners to hang slightly away. The image and print was yellowing with age, fading on cheap paper that showed it hadn’t been intended to stay up for that long. Decades? Steve wondered, briefly recalling the old Captain America posters he’d seen in the Smithsonian. They were aged, too, though clearly by a lot longer, they’d been preserved better than the one he saw on the wall now, nestled between newer posters on glossier paper. Battlin’ Jack Murdock preserved in his own right between the current boxers.

_Huh, and didn’t Matt say-_

“Nelson and Murdock,” Steve recalled in a slow voice before a smile spread across his lips, “You’re Clint’s friend, right? He told us about you.”

The way Matt’s brows furrowed for a few fleeting moments didn’t go amiss. Shy, Steve supposed, as the nervous expression was gone as quickly as it had come.

“’Friend’ might be pushing it,” Matt teased with a half-hearted shrug, “He climbs through my window in the middle of the night to use my first aid kit and crash on my couch.”

Though the man was smiling, Steve couldn’t help but frown, concerned.

“A lawyer got much use for a first aid kit?”

“I trip sometimes.”

When Steve didn’t respond, Matt continued.

“Walk into doors, too. You should ask my partner- _law partner_ \- he’s always pestering me to get a dog.”

Steve finally smiled at that and Matt almost found himself letting out a sigh of relief.

“Yeah? You meet Clint’s dog, yet? Mucky little thing, cute though. Maybe it would be good for you.”

“No, like I said – I rarely see Clint unless he’s in desperate need of stitches.”

A small smile played on Matt’s lips and he cocked his head to the side. There was a certain playfulness about him that Steve was helplessly drawn to.

“Now are you going to go a few rounds with me or not?” Matt asked, gesturing over towards the ring, “I don’t need my _childhood hero_ convincing me to get a dog.”

Selfishly, Steve was glad that Matt couldn’t see him then, because he couldn’t hide his proud grin or the red flush that crept up to his ears. He attempted to play it off with a warm chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

In the end, they went for three rounds, both considerably pulling their punches.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, like the last, has mentions of alcohol. Matt doesn't have the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but drinking dulls his senses and lets him clear his head for at least a little while. There's nothing excessive about his drinking habits, but it is there and probably will be throughout this story. Anyway, enjoy!

The next time that Clint and Matt saw one another, the circumstances were, surprisingly, worse than the last.

Matt was supposed to have taken the night off as Daredevil – or his ‘nightly activities’ as Foggy had so eloquently referred to them – and he truly had intended to, for once. Losing a case was always hard for him, but this had been different; an abusive husband, rich, a businessman, had walked away with nothing more considerable than a warning and a metaphorical slap on the wrist. His and Foggy’s client, the wife and her two children, lost the trial and Matt had been able to do little other than paying for a hotel for a few nights and vowing to do anything he could to help.

That ‘anything’ hadn’t been much, considering.

It was only hours after the case that Matt had secluded himself in Josie’s, drowning his sorrows with a bottle of rum – because he _had_ ended up asking for the bottle after the third or fourth glass, deciding that if he was going to attempt to forget his problems, he might as well do it properly. Josie had been hesitant, at first, but well, Matt was an adult, and she’d seen him in worse states.

She had allowed him a half-full bottle of whiskey too, a few hours after, and countless shots throughout the night. After years of knowing one another, Josie had come to be a lot more lenient on Matt than her other customers; he always seemed to know his limits, never grew rowdy or started fights. Most of the time, he would sit at the bar until Foggy came to drag him home.

Only, this time, Foggy never showed up, and by the time Matt was asking for his third bottle, Josie didn’t have any choice but to cut him off. There hadn’t been a problem, not that she had expected one, and Matt had stumbled his way out of the bar with mumbled refusals in response to her offer to grab him a cab. He’d be fine walking, he’d said, it wasn’t far.

As he often was, Matt was wrong.

He’d had only been halfway home when he heard muffled yelling a few streets ahead of him. It was pushing just past midnight, so the streets were mostly quiet, allowing Matt to hear the pleas and cries in spite of his alcohol dazed state. It was a sound that, even drunk, he couldn’t ignore.

Matt’s feet had carried him the rest of the way, with little thought to the fact that it almost certainly wasn’t a good idea. He had quickly discarded of his glasses, trusting the darkness of night-time in Hell’s Kitchen to conceal both his identity and his blindness, and once he was ready, it didn’t take him long to find the woman and her attacker.

If he were feeling particularly poetic, Matt might have said that the Devil took over the moment that he stepped into the alleyway, lips curling into a lip-splitting grin – was that the Devil or the _alcohol_?

“You know, I’m starting to get sick of men like you being in my city.”

The words came in a low growl, deep and slurred slightly, though not distorted enough to overpower his voice. It caught the attacker’s attention and, in his distraction, the woman beneath him didn’t hesitate to run.

“You shouldn’t have done that, pretty boy-“

And, _gross,_ he thought, opening his mouth to say as much, but the opportunity to do so quickly passed, because soon a fist was swinging towards him and Matt forced instinct to take over.

Ducking, Matt grunted, almost as if to say _so we’re doing this, then_ , before he centred his balance and focused on assessing the stranger’s movements. Fast, but not inhumanly. Trained, calculated, though not the most skilled Matt had fought. He was heavy on his feet, put force behind his swings, and- _shit!_

A fist collided with Matt’s stomach, causing him to stagger back unsteadily, caught off guard for once and eliciting a groan in response. The stranger took the opportunity further, raising his knee sharply against Matt’s face when he doubled over from the hit. Matt knew that enhanced hearing wasn’t necessary to hear the _crack_ that sounded from his nose as it broke under the force.

With a pained groan, Matt raised his own leg, hooking it beneath the attacker’s before he had the chance to lower it. His fist swung, landing a heavy punch to the stranger’s jaw, hard enough to knock him off balance and accentuated by Matt knocking his leg from underneath him. It seemed as though Matt miscalculated his own drunken lack of balance, though, as the man toppling to the floor brought Matt along with him. With the upper hand, the stranger flipped them over, using their hooked legs to gain power over Matt, who was soon overwhelmed by fast-paced blows landing from his jaw down to his chest. He acted defensively, deflecting and avoiding whatever hits he could, though it did little, the alcohol in his system leaving him fuzzy-minded and dizzy.

He couldn’t exactly say how long it was before the man got off of him, spitting down as he rose to his feet under the assumption that Matt wouldn’t follow him. Perhaps that would have been the better idea, but Matt’s self-preservation skills seemed to be even more non-existent than usual, because he stumbled to his feet with a bloodied grin, fists raised in front of him.

“We’re not done,” he slurred, mouth aching as he spoke. Split lip, then.

Turning back to Matt, the stranger appeared to sigh, as though he thought the fight was more effort than it was worth.

“Yeah, we are.”

The last thing Matt remembered was the stranger’s fist coming towards him. After that, he hit the floor.

* * *

_“Matty? ...Jesus Christ… Hey Ma-… You awa-… Can you hear me? Matty?”_

Clint’s voice drifted in and out as Matt groaned, grimacing at the ache that seemed to radiate through his entire body when he shifted, though the wet concrete beneath him did little to ease the pain. He tried to roll onto his side, but a firm hand against his shoulder kept him in place.

“Hey, no, Matty, stay still, you’re going to hurt yourself. Open your eyes for me.”

Leaning slightly over him, Clint gently pat at Matt’s cheek until the man did as he was told, eyes staring unseeingly up at him. Despite himself, Clint smiled. Matt was bloody and beaten damn near half to death, but he was awake and aware and that was something.

“Atta boy. What the hell happened to you, man? Do you remember?” Clint asked, his hand finding Matt’s and carefully pulling him to sit up, staying crouched beside him when the lawyer let out a low, tired groan and shook his head.

“Okay. Okay. We should…” Clint trailed off, glancing around them. Matt’s apartment wasn’t too far. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” It was all Matt could utter, the response coming in the form of a sharp grunt, a particular determination etched across his face; an expression most commonly worn by the Murdock boys.

The thought made Matt snort out a laugh.

Clint was hesitant but nodded after a moment of thought. They needed to get Matt somewhere warm – God knows how long he’d been laying there. He tapped at Matt’s thigh, stepping backwards and shifting his grip to his arm, one on his hand and the other just above his elbow to ensure that he would be able to catch him if he fell.

“On three, Matty,” he warned, waiting for Matt to nod in confirmation before continuing.

“One, two, three.”

It wasn’t hard to get Matt to stand. He was light and moved easily with Clint’s guidance, but the minute Clint stepped back and allowed him to take a step forward, Matt swayed on his feet, eyes rolling backwards momentarily before he fell face first into Clint.

“Jesus Christ, okay,” Clint sucked in a sharp breath, lowering them both back down to the floor, Matt’s head tucked securely against his lap. He pursed his lips, leaning back against the wall as he stared down at Matt and weighed his options.

The last thing Clint wanted to do was take Matt back to the tower with him, knowing that they wouldn’t get a moment of peace if he did, but he would also rather not have Hell’s Kitchen’s best lawyer die on him. With a sigh, Clint pulled out his phone and called the first person he could think of.

* * *

“What happened to him?”

Clint glanced up when he heard Natasha speak, pausing briefly at the sight of Bruce trailing along behind her. His eyes narrowed at the two of them, Natasha clad in a deep red dress and Bruce in a suit with a tie of a similar colour.

“Were you two on a date?” he squawked incredulously; eyes wide as he glanced between the two of them.

“Clint,” Natasha snapped dismissively, kneeling down beside him, “What happened to him?”

Forcing his gaze away from Bruce, Clint turned his attention down to Matt, who had periodically lost and regained consciousness whilst they waited for Natasha, mumbling nonsensical things about the devil before pain took over again.

“I don’t know, I found him like this and tried to get him home, but he can’t even stay awake, Nat. Didn’t know what else to do.”

Natasha’s lips pursed into a tight line as she nodded, not bothering to reply to Clint in favour of checking Matt over.

“Can I?” Bruce’s voice caught both of their attention, their heads snapping up towards him. He seemed almost hesitant to ask, gesturing at Matt. The last thing Clint had expected was for Natasha to agree, but he supposed she was full of surprises today, because she nodded and shifted aside to give him some space. If Natasha, of all people, trusted Bruce, then Clint supposed it wouldn’t hurt him to do the same. Natasha’s judgement on people was rarely ever wrong.

Bruce worked with a clear level of caution and control about him, pressing his fingers against Matt’s ribs with a small frown, before sighing and running them over the back of his head. When he pulled away, his fingers were coated with blood and Clint cursed under his breath. Really, he should have checked.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Bruce leant over Matt again and turned his torch on. He gently opened one of Matt’s eyes, flicking the light to check for a reaction. When he found none, Bruce held his breath, checking once more before sighing. “he’s-“

“Blind,” Clint finished with a small shake of his head, “Has been since he was a kid.”

Instead of responding, Bruce simply nodded, putting his phone away so that he could continue checking Matt over as best he could with the circumstances. The entire time, Clint watched anxiously and promptly ignored it when he felt Natasha’s own gaze on him. He didn’t need to be questioned about his relationship with Matt when the man was unconscious in his lap, _not the time, man_.

“From what I can tell, he should be okay. I should probably realign his nose and I think he needs some stitches at the back of his head, but other than that, it’s just a case of a few broken ribs. I won’t be able to tell properly without running some tests, though, Clint.”

“Aw, shit,” Clint mumbled, running his hand through his hair as he looked down to Matt. A soft sigh left him before he finally nodded. If it meant Matt was safe, he’d deal with the abundance of questions the other Avengers were bound to have.

“I’ll get Stark to send someone,” Natasha announced, excusing her and Bruce for a few moments to leave Clint alone with Matt. He sunk down against the wall, carding his fingers through Matt’s dark hair as best he could, catching on blood matted knots.

“Sorry, Matty,” he murmured, “I know you’re not gonna like this but I gotta make sure you’re okay.”

He would be okay. 

He had no other choice, Clint needed him to be okay.


End file.
